


Another Light, A Different Place

by dornessiti



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, First Time, Jon Snow Needs A Nap 2k19, Jonmund, M/M, Oral Sex, a lil angsty, and there was only one bed, writing this made me wanna cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 11:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20638361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornessiti/pseuds/dornessiti
Summary: ( title from "Monday" by Filous, Ashe )The day that Jon Snow comes back to life is the day he finally lets someone else fight for him





	Another Light, A Different Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Louhetar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louhetar/gifts).

> I'd like to thank Szamanita (on ao3 and on tumblr) for letting me spam her day and night for the past week about this fic AND for her amazing contribution to this work, which was;
> 
> (after tormund and jon both realize they're in love)
> 
> jon: i need to think about it a bit  
jon: *dies*  
tormund: are you done thinking yet

Midnight had come and gone long ago, as had the last few straggling crows, now all tucked away in their nice warm beds ‘cept for those on night’s watch.

Lucky for him, these fool boys don’t trust a wildling with their precious Wall. Tormund had gone to bed with the rest of them, eager enough to collapse onto the cramped, lumpy pallet that takes up a corner of his chamber in the Shadow Tower. 

His eyes are heavy and his body slow, the days events weighing him down until he feels as if he might fall right through the stone floors. 

Tormund had seen a great many things- things that would send these Southern men running right back to their fancy, far-off cities. But even he had never seen the likes of this; living men brought back from the dead in honest. 

True, undead beasts march through his home even now, but none of them have color in their eyes or hot blood singing through their veins. 

Jon Snow is alive.

He’s alive and the men who killed him are dead, though they’d gone much easier than he had. 

When they had found his body- broken and bloody and cold- Tormund had nearly been burned alive with the white hot rage that flooded him. He had planned on killing every last crow in this castle before burning the shit place to the ground, leaving nothing behind but ashes and ghosts. 

And then he came back to him. The crow commander who gave his life to stand with the Free Folk. 

_“They think you’re some kind of god. The man who returned from the dead.”_

_“I’m not a god.” _

He had agreed then, but now as he lays and listens to the wind whistle through these old walls, all his tired mind can cling to is the memory of seeing Jon Snow come through that door; hale and whole. There are plenty of gods in the world. Real or imaginary, it only takes someone praying for them to spark into existence. 

Does it still count as worship when the prayers are never said out loud?

A knock on the door puts an end to those thoughts. 

Tormund swears long and loud but moves to answer all the same, the comforting chill that washes over his exposed skin lessened only slightly by the warm pants he’d won from a fight earlier that day. He grins faintly when reminded of how the young crow had managed to stay in the brawl until well after his second broken rib. 

It was a sign of good strength. 

That man Davos keeps reminding him that the men here don’t fight to the death, they fight to improve skill. Tormund keeps telling him that nothing improves skill more than trying to stay alive. 

Either way, whichever cunt felt need to pull him from his warm bed must be very eager to learn that lesson. 

He throws the heavy door open with biting words waiting to spill from his lips, all of which die in his throat the second he takes in the pale skin and honey-wine eyes waiting for him. 

“Were you asleep?” Jon Snow asks quietly. 

Tormund inspects him for a moment, trying to read the other man’s face. He’ll never understand why these Southern men make their thoughts so complicated, why their actions always fight amongst themselves in meaning. 

The crow has a serious look about him now. Serious and brooding as a winter storm. “Doesn’t matter if I was or wasn’t, not when I have pretty lordlings knocking on my door. Come inside, Snow.”

“ ‘m sorry.” He shakes his head but follows into the room all the same, looking around as he goes, taking in the cracks in the stone, the dust lining unused shelves. “We have better rooms you know- warmer ones.”

“What do I care about being warm? Besides, there’s nothing better for a man than the cold, it’s the ice in our bones that keeps us strong.”

Jon says nothing but there’s a hint of a smile on his face that wasn’t there before, and it tastes like a victory. “I grew up in Winterfell, where the snow never leaves the ground. ‘Couldn’t imagine anywhere colder ‘til I was sent to take up the black. Now I think the ice in my bones will never melt, no matter how far South I go.”

“You shouldn’t risk leaving. What would these birds do if their king lost his strength?” Tormund’s tone is mocking, though he means every word. 

“I’m not their king. And I’ll have to go South eventually if I’m to find us the help we need to survive.” He sighs and closes his eyes. “I woke up from somewhere I was never meant to leave and now...I fear I’m taking our people back there with me.” 

_Our_ people.

“There are worse ways to go than fighting for the living, Jon Snow.” He whispers. 

The boy looks up at him then, something so soft waiting for him in those dark eyes that he aches with it. “Aye, that’s true enough.”

“...Why did you come, Little Crow?” A heavy silence covers them then, both men too proud to look away. 

“I can’t be alone, not with all these thoughts fillin’ my head.” Jon’s voice faltered then, breaking off as he looks towards the corner of his room. “Can I...”

“Just get in the fucking bed.” Tormund moves to lift the edge of the furs, sliding in and over to make room for the other. “ ‘m not sleeping on the floor though.”

There isn’t a lot of space as is, but he couldn’t turn him away- not after today. 

Today he saw the crow’s life forced back into him, saw the grey run from his skin and the light return to his eyes. There isn’t a thing in the world Tormund wouldn’t do now to take away some of the darkness that still follows his every move as if waiting to drag him away once more.

He can smell it on him still- the death. Sweet as honey covered rot, it rolls off in waves. And the exhaustion is there as well, clear as the day. Jon Snow looks as if he could rest for a hundred years and still be tired. 

If he’d only asked, Tormund would have broken the traitors’ bones with his own hands, torn them open one by one until the ground drank up their blood and there was nothing left to burn. But instead they’d been hanged and he’d had to make due with watching as their faces turned blue as ice. 

It hadn’t been enough- not nearly enough.

He still stands beside the bed, indecision written clear across his face. Tormund sighs and lifts his arm, a clear invitation as any. “Now’s not the time to go worrying about your Southern customs, Pretty Crow.” 

The fierce little thing actually laughs at him then, no matter how quiet and broken the sound may be. With a small, amused shake of the head, Jon Snow finally crawls under the furs and allows himself to be dragged against the larger man’s chest, Tormund’s warm arms protectively coming up to circle his waist. There’s no room for embarrassment now that he can feel the rise and fall of the crow’s body against his. Not when all he sees every time he closes his eyes is his body lying cold and still on that table. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” Jon admits, unsure of where to place his hands before finally settling on laying them over his forearms. 

Tormund buries his face into dark curls and slowly, deeply breathes until the honey-rot finally gives way to something that belongs just to him; something comfortable and woodsy and cleaner than fresh snow in the morning. “ ‘Figured.” 

“...All I keep seein’ is the dark.” 

He tightens his grip around Jon’s waist, a wild part of him desperate to keep him from ever getting lost again. “Do you trust me, Snow?” 

“I do.” 

The answer comes so easily, so sure. He could have taken that knife to the heart himself and it wouldn’t leave such a mark. “Then trust this; I promise to keep you breathin’ well past daybreak, and for every sunrise that comes after.” 

No reply comes, not at first. Only deep, slow breathing that could almost be mistaken for sleep if it weren’t for the jumping skin beneath his hands. Tormund can’t help but focus on the places where their bodies touch; covered legs curled next to his, the crow’s back nestled safely against his chest, calloused fingers that curl over his arms as gentle as the rain. It pains him in ways he can’t explain to hold this strong, wild little thing as if he’s something that can be tamed- as if he’s something that can be kept. 

“I believe you.” Jon’s voice is thick, almost too low to be heard. Clearing his throat, he rolls over to face him, those pretty dark eyes catching on his mouth before quickly flitting away again. 

_Why,_ he sighs, _Why must the lordling make it so difficult?_

He knows that Snow watches him, that he has been since the first time they met in that frozen, fucking tent with Mance a lifetime ago. Tormund can always tell when he’s nearby by how proper all the little Southern boys are quick to turn, how even the free folk stand just a bit taller. 

He’ll be in the middle of a fight- a _spar,_ Davos insists- and suddenly, no one’s willing to bite, to kick, to scream with the joy of it all. They’re all practiced blows and silly forms with no real heat behind them. He always wins, there was no doubt that he would, but there’s no glory in it after that. 

It still feels good though, winning in front of him. It almost isn’t fair how much harder he fights knowing Jon will see, how much quicker he _needs_ to send the others sprawling as proof that he can save him from what’s to come. Every blow that lands is a promise.

“Say it again.” Tormund demands, voice dangerously rough, too raw to hide how desperate he is to believe it. 

Jon knows what he asks of him. _Say you’ll let me protect you. _

He sucks in a sharp breath, threading a hand through Tormund’s messy red locks to hold himself steady. It’s surprises them both, though for once Snow doesn’t look as if he means to pull away. If anything, his fingers curl deeper, afraid to let go and break whatever spell this is that has lent him the courage. “I believe you- believe _in_ you-”

Tormund can feel his will break down at that, cracking open and flooding him with a need unlike anything else he’s felt before. He doesn’t wait to hear anything after that, pays no mind to any sound but the rush of blood in his ears as he dips down and kisses Jon like he’s wanted to every day since their climb up the Wall. It’s hungry and rushed and for a brief moment he worries that he’d misread those Southern emotions once again, but then the crow is kissing him back and it’s even better than he imagined it would be. 

Jon deepens it, chases after the press of his mouth to tentatively swipe his tongue against Tormund’s bottom lip. _Gods, he feels alive with it._ He returns the touch without hesitation, a low growl building in his chest as his senses are surrounded by that same comfortable, woodsy smell that belongs just to him. 

Until all thoughts of war and death are pushed aside completely. 

Until nothing else exists but their warm bodies on this cramped, lumpy bed. 

Minutes could have passed- hours even- but time means nothing anymore. Not with Tormund kissing his way slowly, purposefully down Snow’s throat just to listen to the way he tries to hide these small, surprised gasps. The sound is fucking beautiful, magic even with how drunk he feels from it already. He could happily spend the rest of his life trying to see what different noises can be dragged out from the fierce little thing moving against him.

And Gods, is he moving. Jon rolls his hips against his without thinking, too caught up in the feeling of Tormund gently sucking a pattern of deep, purple-red marks along the dip of his collarbone to care about whether or not they’ll show from beneath that fancy cloak of his. _Let them see._ A rush of possessiveness washes over him at the thought of the Lord Commander, god amongst his own men, wearing these marks just beneath his battle leathers. 

Tormund can feel how hard he is against him already; it only seems fair then to line up their hips so that the crow can feel his own solid length grind down against his. It punches a noise from Jon so sweet, the sound of it reverberates all the way down his spine and straight to his cock. 

He has to take a deep, calming breath. It would feel so good to give in; to take what he wants now. But the trust on Jon’s face, the belief he’s put in him; he wants to do this right. 

Tormund tilts his face until those brown eyes are focused back on him. “I can take care of you, boy, if you’ll let me.”

Jon sighs and lets his eyes flutter shut, just for a moment, before they open again with so much heat behind them, it sends his mind roaring with satisfaction. 

_This one is mine._

“I want it.” It’s the crow’s turn this time to lean in and steal a kiss; this one slow and rough, a promise of his own. And then he’s reluctantly pulling away, though only far enough that they can face each other once more. “...I think I’ve wanted it for a very long time.” 

Tormund nods and thoughtfully brushes a thumb over one of the marks he’d left blooming across Jon’s pale skin, noticing the way he shivers from the touch.

He raises an eyebrow at that and grins, though Jon doesn’t seem half as amused by his playful expression if the huff he receives is anything to go by. Tormund really does laugh then before gently rolling him flat on his back so that he can come to settle between the crow’s thighs. 

And then he falls silent, sitting back to take in the sight of Jon sprawled beneath him. His smile softens- though no less real- into something he might call fond. It confuses him still; how this Southern lordling managed to turn him so soft. Had it been anyone else, he might have killed them for it. 

But deep in his bones, he knows that nobody else could have made him like this. 

Secretly, privately, Tormund Giantsbane has been defeated. 

Snow watches him as he always does, sees the many thoughts running through his head, and reaches out to draw him back down. He goes easily, and takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of the crow’s legs framing his waist before burying his face against the crook of his neck and nipping at one of those same spots from before just to feel Jon’s back arch up off the bed with a low, pretty moan just for him. 

It urges him on, guides Tormand lower as he waits only long enough to rid Snow of his shirt before laving over the lines of his body, pressing slow licks and kisses to every inch of skin that falls in his path. 

He makes sure to stop at each place where their blades went through, makes sure Jon can feel the reverence in his touch as he reminds him that these scars are proof that death hadn’t been allowed to keep him. 

Tormund then unties Jon’s breeches with steady hands and pushes away the fabric to reveal his already leaking cock. Snow’s not as big as he is, but he’s thick and beautiful and twitching from the cold air of the room. Jon’s hand had stayed fisted in his hair through it all, but now he _pulls._ He does it without thinking and tries to pull away apologetically once he realizes, but Tormund only snorts and guides his hand back down to where it was. Besides, it feels good, the way the crow cautiously cards his fingers through his locks as if he’s thought about doing it before but had never been brave enough to act on it. 

The idea of Jon wanting for so long to touch him has Tormund groaning from the contact, lightning already pooling beneath his skin. His grip on the crow’s thighs is bruising, but his voice is deceivingly gentle when he lowers his mouth just to the side of where he wants him, “I told you I was going to take care of you, my little crow.” 

Despite the calm face Jon wears so well, his body shakes with fine tremors, giving him away. “Aye...you did.” 

Tormund nods once more and finally, _finally,_ licks a long stripe up the length of his cock, humming around the taste of precum on his tongue. The crow jerks, crying out as his hips try to buck up into the heat of his mouth, but Tormund’s hands are solid and unmoving, and he keeps him pinned in place as he swallows him down completely.

There’s nothing that could have prepared him for the sight Jon Snow makes now- his thighs shaking with the effort of staying still and his free hand gripping the sheets as if his life depends on it. It’s enough to steal the breath right out of him. 

Tormund sets a tortourous pace, his cheeks hollowed out with effort as he takes him in until he’s hitting the back of his throat, over and over again, Jon’s breathing growing more ragged by the minute. Every time he flattens his tongue and drags it along the vein at the underside of his cock, stopping to suck on the tip, another beautiful noise comes spilling out of the crow, the sound of it leaving him rutting against the bed in an attempt to gain any kind of friction for himself. 

He’s so focused on his task of taking Jon apart that it takes much longer than it should to realize that those quiet, desperate moans had turned into his name, whispered into the dark like a prayer; 

_“Tor.”_

Tormund makes a wrecked noise and slips off with a wet pop, taking a second to rub his beard against the more sensitive part of Jon’s inner thigh before breathing out against him, _“Take what you need,”_ and then he’s back on him, his hands freeing the crow’s hips to grip his ass instead. 

Jon cries out and let’s his hips finally snap forward, his head tossed back and his eyes tightly shut as he thrusts three more times before trying to tug Tormund back in warning. The wildling doesn’t move, lets the realization hit him as his body shakes and flushes and tightens before he’s finally spilling down Tormund’s throat. 

He holds him through it, pulls off and rests his head against the boy’s stomach until he feels his body calm beneath him. They lay like this; breathing in time, sweat cooling on their bodies, and Jon’s fingers still playing with his hair, until Tormund finally forces himself to rise and pick up his long-discarded shirt off the ground to wipe the two of them down. It’s only when he stands that Jon realizes how hard he is.

“Wait, come back!” He blurts out, blushing at the urgency in his voice. 

Tormund laughs loudly and shakes his head before laying back down, lazily slinging his arm around him. He presses a final, lingering kiss to Jon’s lips and shushes him as he tries to argue. “There will be more time for that later. Now? Now you need sleep.” 

“I slept for two days.”

“You were _dead_ for two days. My cock will still be here in the morning.” He insists, pleased to see the small smile that flickers across his face. 

Jon shakes his head but seems to listen, letting his eyes slip closed. “Just-...Thank you, Tor.”

He _will_ still be here in the morning, and for all the days to come. He’d promised. Even if he has to fight the fucking Night King himself, there will be no going back to that dark place for Jon Snow, not for years and years. 

Snow’s breathing evens out and in the blink of an eye, his face is finally soft with sleep. 

“Thank you, my little crow.” Tormund whispers, carefully holding him tighter- holding him closer- until he falls asleep to the feeling of Jon’s body rising and falling with life that fills him once more.


End file.
